


The Blue Weirwood

by Atri



Series: The Songs of the North [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU after Robert's Rebellion, Butterflies, Gen, R plus L equals J, Sequel, Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7459012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atri/pseuds/Atri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third story in "The Songs of the North".</p><p>As an ancient enemy stirs far north of the Wall and the Wildling attacks grow fiercer and more desperate, events in the South come to a head. History seems to be repeating itself. Once more, those of Stark blood are held captive by a king sitting on the Iron Throne. Once more, House Stark are branded traitors. While religious tensions are ready to boil over and the fate of Westeros hangs in the balance opportunists and schemers alike come out of the woodwork. The fate of the North will be decided by blade, by magic and by blood -- but who will pay the price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I finally had some time to write again (am still incredibly busy, though). Here's Part 3 of the series. Enjoy. :D

#  Eddard I 

Consciousness returned laboriously through a lazy haze of physical comfort and sleep, his mind slowly waking from the nightmares of the previous few hours. What had he been dreaming about? Dark shadows, steel clashing under the moonlight, blue eyes staring, staring, staring…

Ned shivered, his naked, sweat-drenched back chilled by the breeze coming through the window. Sighing, he stood up and prepared for the day ahead. Outside, the North was as evergreen as it had been for so many years now, but somehow Ned was certain that soon a white sheet of snow would cover his lands and not melt as easily as the summer snows did. There was a distinct, sharp chill in the air. Winter was coming.

He dressed quickly and left his rooms. It was yet still early but Robb was already up as he always was these days, his young face frowning, bent over the large map table. His gaze was focused on the northern part of their kingdom, near the Gift.

“Working again, my boy? What will your wife say when she finds you gone from your bed?”

Robb’s pale face flushed with color and the grown-up, married man changed into a young boy again.

“I know you told me that I shouldn’t work so hard, but…”

“…but you’re worried.”

There was no need to ask why. Small red figurines were scattered all over the map table, their numbers rising more and more the closer to the Wall one looked. Though some of them even reached far south into the Rills.

“Aye.” Robb nodded. “They are like a storm at sea, wave after wave crashing against the shore that is the North. Even with the Dawnguard patrolling the Gifts it is not enough and the population of the Gifts and even further south suffer. This could render all our efforts to strengthen the Night’s Watch useless. And then there are those rumors about a King-Beyond-the-Wall…”

“True. But, Robb — thinking about it overly much won’t help you solve the problem. We are already doing everything we can and we can do nothing more than that. Come, let us go and eat something. Your mind will work better after some food in your belly and some rest from your concerns.”

Robb smiled slightly, shrugging in an abashed manner.

“Yes, Father. You are probably right. It’s just…”

Ned put an arm around his son and pulled him out of the room.

“It’s just that you’re a young man eager to achieve something grand. That is both the curse and blessing of youth. But remember, Robb, that patience is oftentimes the difference between success and failure.”

“And sometimes action is better than waiting around doing nothing,” Robb argued back. 

“True. Though you have to know, my boy, when the time is right to do one or the other. It is no easy thing to discern. Sometimes you won’t know until much later what the right decision had been.”

There were times that Ned himself wondered how different the world would have been had he, say, declared independence years ago, had he not given Robert a hostage in Lyan or if Jaime Lannister had been a lesser man. But such things only the Gods knew now. The world was as it was and they had to deal with the here and now.

Ned shook his head, dispelling those useless musings.

“Come, let us eat.”

Together, father and son broke their fast: cold grilled rabbit, fresh bread and fruit. They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the quiet before Winterfell entirely awoke to life.

“Will you come with me to the execution?”

“Aye, Father,” Robb nodded. “It’s not every day that we’ve got ourselves a Night’s Watch deserter.”

“Were that those came few and far between. The Watch is not what it was in ancient times, ’tis true, but more than ten in two months?” It was something Ned could not explain. The Wildling attacks had grown more ferocious, yes, but they had gained in frequency years ago and yet only now did the Night’s Watch lose so many members to desertion.

“Perhaps we might ask the man his reasons?”

“Ask we may,” Ned nodded, taking a sip from his goblet, “but don’t expect too much, son. An oath breaker’s words are not often to be trusted. If a man can break an oath he swore before men and the Gods then what hinders him to lie again? Oaths hold a kingdom together as surely as military might does. They should not easily be squandered.”

“And yet you trusted Lord Jaime after the Rebellion — a man who broke perhaps the most important oath in the whole of Westeros.” There was a glint of satisfaction in Robb’s eye as he countered, but also more than enough curiosity as to how Ned would reply. 

“Aye, I did. There are few things in the world that are more important than your personal honor, Robb. For Jaime Lannister it were the lives of the citizens of King’s Landing…”

“And what would be more important for you, Father?” Ah, the boy was thinking about Jon. 

Ned smiled. The honorable Ned Stark, they called him even still; just a reflection in the water of a second son fostered in the Vale. He had not been that boy for a long time now. A lordship meant responsibility, meant making decisions where there was no good choice at all offered. Ned could only hope that his son would not be burdened with such things for a long time to come yet.

“Family and the North.”

He had long ago chosen those things over his friendship with the man who now sat upon the Iron Throne. He would choose them again, if necessary.

Duty upon duty upon duty. And here, now, was another duty.

They rode out of the gates, a small group of his men-at-arms behind him and Robb, and Greywind to the side. The dire wolf yipped and yapped, already having grown so much in such a short time. A living sigil at their side. Sometimes Ned wondered if that was a sign for things to come. Living in a time of legends, that was what it felt like. But legendary times, Ned knew, were times of strife and chaos.

He shifted in his saddle, the chill from his nightmare suddenly present and real in the Northern sunshine. Those blue eyes…

As they rode on the morning fog hovering above the hills slowly lifted and by midday they came upon the small holdfast where the deserter was kept imprisoned. It was a pitiful sight. The man was old, over fifty surely, with deep lines in his face and grey in his hair. Cowering and thin only the black clothes he wore separated him from a common wretch. But it was the eyes that unsettled Ned. Sheer terror was in them; terror greater even than that which he had seen during the war in those waiting to die.

“Father…is this not Gared? We met him at the Wall.” Robb frowned, his head cocking to one side.

“Hmm…now that you mention it…yes.” It was no wonder that Ned hadn’t recognized him at first. His memories told him of an experienced ranger with a dry humor and intelligence in his eyes. Not…this…

“Gared! Gared! Tell us — why did you desert?”

Gared groaned, mad eyes darting from side to side, watchful for something only he could see.

“No use, this, Lord Robb,” the guard answered instead, “the man’s as mad as a rabid dog. Hasn’t said anything with sense the whole night he’s been here.”

“Then what did he say?”

The guard shrugged.

“Rambled about danger and death. Figured that all the time on the Wall without a good woman drove him mad.” He paused. “Oh — he also went on and on about some blue eyes —“

“Blue eyes!” Gared shrieked, his body trembling. “Around…around…coming…they bring death, death!”

Blue eyes. He had dreamed about blue eyes today and even hours later he could not banish them from his mind.

Ned kneeled in front of the Black Brother, his own sure hands clasping the weathered face, holding it in place. He stared into madness and madness stared back. His heart shuddered.

“Where,” he used his full lord-voice, gathering every scrap of authority into his words that he could, “where have you seen the blue eyes? Where? Where?!”

Beneath his hands the body of the man shook but Ned thought that behind the madness in his eyes he could glimpse a small shard of the man Gared had once been.

“The Fist…the Fist…the Fist!” Gared screamed his answer, then folded into himself as if sapped of all his strength. “Cold and death,” he continued to whisper. “Nohopenohopenohopenohopenohope…”

A mad, terrible suspicion rose up in his mind as for just a moment it seemed to Ned that Gared’s speech was as clear as spring water. But no, it could not be…

“Father. Father!” Robb grasped his arm firmly and the terror inside him subsided, the dream leaving him once more.

“I am fine, Robb. Come, let us make an end to this. Whatever his reasons, this man deserted the Night’s Watch and there is only one fate that awaits him now.” Perhaps it was even mercy of a kind to grant him a swift and painless death.

It was with this wish of mercy that Ned raised Ice and cut off Gared’s head. Robb stood silently and grimly next to him, never having looked more like Ned than in these moments of responsibility.

“Are you alright, Father?” Robb asked him during their ride back to Winterfell.

“It is nothing, son, just…”

“Just what?”

“A bad feeling.”

And that bad feeling would not leave him, not even as they rode through the familiar gates of Winterfell.

“My lord! My lord!” Maester Luwin was running. If that had not been enough, then his grave eyes would have done it. Ned tensed, chest tight and heart cold.

“Yes, Luwin?”

“A raven, my lord. Come — you must look at this. Now.”

They followed Luwin to the solar, reaching it quickly. Behind him Ned could feel Robb shifting anxiously. As he took the letter from Luwin Ned already knew that it had all fallen apart, somehow.

__

_  
_

Lord Eddard Stark,

You are to present yourself and your heir to his Highness King Joffrey Baratheon the First of His Name to answer for the crimes committed by your traitor brother Benjen against King Robert Baratheon. In cowardly fashion and against all that is right and sacred in this world the traitor Benjen Stark killed King Robert Baratheon the First of His Name, breaking Guest Right and all worldly laws.

It is the kind and merciful heart of King Joffrey Baratheon that gives you the opportunity to spare the rest of your family the dishonor of treason. You are assured of fair and just treatment if you confirm your loyalty to King and realm. But know that if you deny your King’s will, all the might of Westeros will be brought to bear against you as justice is sought.

King Joffrey Baratheon,  
First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm

  


The letter slipped from his hand. Dimly, he was aware that Robb had picked it up and was reading it.

Again. It was all happening again. History repeating itself. Starks in the hands of a king sitting on the Iron Throne. His House branded traitors, called to present himself and Robb in King’s Landing.

He knew how it would end if he followed this call. How it had ended before.

“Father?” Robb’s voice was faint. He could hear the same impotence in it that he remembered in his own all those years ago when he had gotten the news about his father and Brandon. “Father, what shall we do?”

“The only thing we can do, son.” He turned to Luwin and nodded. “Call the banners, assemble the North and get information from our spies. We are going to war.”

And this time things would end differently.

Ned would make sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

#  Theon I 

Theon grunted and finished without the usual satisfaction. He turned away, ignoring the scurrying behind him as she fled his chambers like a mouse fleeing from a cat. Mice. All around him mice. Worthless. Even playing with them did not bring him the usual sense of fun. No, his thoughts were too dark for that.

Asha. Where was she? She had left for some raiding near the Vale almost a month ago and since then — nothing.

Don’t worry so much, brother, she’d told him, the greenlanders have too much trouble with their gods and trying to bash each others’ heads in for them than focus on some enterprising people relieving them of their precious cargo on the seas.

And with a jaunty wave and a smirk she’d set sail, taking one of her playthings along with her to keep her satisfied — and why were all of those so damn loyal to her anyway? He’d never managed to make one of his like that. But, then again, he tired of them quickly enough. Whether blue-eyed or green or brown — all of them were the same in the end.

Theon spared a last glance at the horizon, frowning, then went inside and sent for a meal. It was of the highest quality like it usually was: succulent fruit right from his islands, the best of meats, artfully seasoned and masterfully cooked, and the most flavory of cheeses from every corner of the world. And the wine! From Dornish reds to even some bottles of the golden wines of the Jade Sea were his to taste.

And today all of it tasted bland upon his tongue.

This made Theon’s frown only deepen, for good food was one of the essential pleasures of life. That and a girl every night to satisfy the rest of his urges. He had the power to indulge in his proclivities, whatever they were, be it fucking, eating or killing. But he still did not know where Asha was.

With a growl he pushed his meal aside and went to bed. The silk sheets enveloped his body and after a while his mind drifted into a restless sleep.

…Theon…

…Theon!…

“Theon! THEON!”

He jumped, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword at his bedside. 

“…what?” His sleepy eyes narrowed as he stared above him into the shadows. “Simeon?”

“Aye.” Simeon’s face was grim, the hard lines gained by a life on the seas only deepened by the darkness.

“What? What has happened?”

“Betrayal.”

Betrayal?

“What?!” Theon swiftly got out of bed and began pulling on his clothes. “What do you mean — betrayal? Explain yourself! Now!”

“One of the captains sailing with Asha’s fleet returned. We let them dock, thinking them friends, but they were not our men. Greenlanders. One of ours must have told them about our defenses. They managed to overwhelm the guards at the port and before we could manage to kill them a whole fleet of them landed!”

“What? How?!”

“They must have hidden, waiting for the signal of their brethren.”

Terror gripped him as the words replayed in his mind. Sailing with Asha’s fleet.

“And my sister?” He gripped Simeon, heart racing with desperation. “Where is my sister?! Where is she?!”

“I don’t know.”

Theon growled.

“I don’t know! And that’s the truth! I swear it!” Simeon pulled himself free, then slapped him across the face. “Now get a grip, boy! You are a king — and there are fuckers here who want to take your kingdom from you! Are you going to be a woman and cry or are you going to fight?”

Theon’s grip tightened on his sword.

“Fight! Goddamn you.”

Asha…Asha…oh, Asha…

“Then let me help you put your armor on and let us kill those fuckers!”

Asha…

_____________________________________________________________________

As dawn approached Bloodstone’s soil was watered by blood as men fought and fell. Quite quickly, Theon realized who was responsible for the attack. Though there were a sizable amount of Essosi in the ranks of his enemies and some who looked like Westerosi knights, the majority of the troops had a golden dwarf on their shields. Lannister. Always Lannister.

That dwarf had grown fat on trade in recent years, had gained power and gold just as quickly as Theon had gained sovereignty over the seas around the Stepstones. His ships had made trouble for him more and more often. More than once Theon or Asha had crossed swords with the dwarf’s men and not all of those battles had been victories.

Asha…if that malformed Lannister had even touched a hair on Asha’s head…

Theon growled at the thought and put his sword into the chest of another Valeman.

There! That peacocked fop waving his sword around ineptly was no doubt the commander.

“Simeon, men — with me!” Theon ordered and fought his way to the man. His arm was growing tired — the fighting had gone all night, with his men losing more and more ground — but his fury and terror for Asha made him endure.

The fop stood no chance.

“Tell me,” Theon screamed at him, “tell me of Ashe!”

“Who?” the fop groaned, eyes terrified.

“The captain of the Black Wind!”

The fop sneered and Theon’s heart jumped, dread filling it. Perhaps the fop knew his fate, for his next words were not filled with fear but with vicious satisfaction.

“The whore went overboard at the coast of the Vale. She’s dead.”

And then he laughed and laughed and laughed.

A terrible roar ripped through the air and only as Theon’s sword slid through the fop’s throat did he recognize that it was not the man’s dying cry but his own agonized scream.

Asha…Asha…Asha…

Theon screamed his pain into the dawn as he threw himself back into the battle, the tears brimming in his eyes blurring his sight but making him no less deadly against his enemies. Everywhere he fought he brought death, perhaps sought it too, but it was no use. As the first rays of the sun hit the earth it was clear that the enemy had captured most of the island. Theon was fighting a losing battle and yet…yet there was nothing else he could do. Nothing he was capable of doing. If he could not fight, then what use was there?

Asha…Asha…

“We must retreat. This is foolishness,” Simeon urged him but Theon could not stop.

“There is nowhere to retreat — and I want that fucking dwarf’s head on a pike, Simeon!” Grief clouded his words. “He took Asha from me!”

“Boy, boy — Theon!” Simeon growled, gripping him by the shoulder and turning him around. “You are king. You must survive. You must flee. We’ll use that Essosi ship we captured last week — the one in the secret harbor.”

“No! No…”

“Then you leave me no choice.” The fist came swiftly and Theon felt himself losing consciousness as arms gripped him. Dimly he felt motion beneath him — a horse? — and when he woke up again he was far away from Bloodstone, sailing south from the only home he’d known for years, away from Asha’s body drifting in the depths of the sea…

Asha…Asha…

“I hate you,” he told Simeon quietly. If he closed his eyes he might have imagined that this was the Seastar and he was a boy again, learning the hard lessons that Simeon would teach him. But there were no lessons to learn. This was not the Seastar and Asha did not wait below deck to nurse him back to health. His sister was gone.

“Aye. But at least you’re alive to do so. You’re alive and that means our people have hope.”

“Hope,” he snorted. “What hope is there? Once more I was forced to flee from my home. I am once more a king without a kingdom.”

“We will rally your forces and come back. Take back what is ours. You know this.”

But as the days came and went, as the ship’s crew tried to seek safety on the other isles of Theon’s kingdom, it soon became clear that there would be no safe harbor for them. The attack on Bloodstone was no single strike, but one that came simultaneously with others. The golden dwarf flew over his former castles, over his strongholds. There was nowhere for Theon to go.

Perhaps what followed should have surprised him — and for a moment it did — but later, much later, as he thought about it, it would seem simple logic to him. The men who were now his crew were not his most loyal. No, these men followed him for what he gave them: power, money, whores. He had none of that now.

They overwhelmed him quickly. As he watched them throw the body of poor, loyal Simeon into the sea, he prayed silently that the Drowned God welcomed him at his side as he hopefully had welcomed his sister.

They put him in chains, fearing his prowess even with their numbers, and then, as Theon sat there in the darkness, he could hear them discussing his fate. Some wanted to throw him into the sea too. Some wanted to give him up to the dwarf. But these were pirates, men who only valued power and money — and neither of those options would get them any.

Finally, one of them said, “The closest free city is Lys. Let us sell him. He’ll get us a good price.”

“As what? I’ve heard of the fighting pits of Meereen…”

“I know someone who runs a pillow house. He’ll make a good bed-slave for them.”

“I thought Lyseni only like them young. He’s over twenty!”

“No, my friend,” the voice laughed, “they’ll fuck anything that moves, if it’s pretty enough. Some will just want to boast that they’ve fucked the man who was once King of the Stepstones. And, besides, he’s pretty enough for them, trust me. And his reputation of being a man-whore has reached even the Essosi — he’ll feel right at home.”

“Hah! We’d be doing him a favor, eh? Just as well.”

And so the course was set.

Destiny, Theon decided, must be a woman. Lys the Lovely glittered with splendor and power under the hot sun, while the same sun burned his naked body. He had been stripped and his…assets…prepared to appear most appealing to the buyer. He should have felt helpless, humiliated — and perhaps that would come, in time — but, in truth, he only felt numb.

Simeon was gone.

Asha was gone.

He was in Lys.

The pirate, who Theon thought was the one who had come up with this idea, walked on board of the ship with a woman by his side. She had the Valyrian coloring: amethyst eyes and silver hair. Beautiful and graceful, clad in silks that shimmered in the light. He had fucked thousands like her.

She looked him up and down, quirked an eyebrow as her gaze hovered beneath his waist, then glanced at the pirate and nodded once. With a gesture a servant behind her put a small pouch of what was probably gold into the pirate’s hand.

He had been sold.

A hand pushed him forward and he stumbled as he first stepped onto Lyseni soil and his new future.


	3. Chapter 3

#  Domeric I 

The familiar dreary sight of the black towers, twisted into the shapes of dragons, in the distance made Domeric smile. It had not been that long since he had walked upon Dragonstone, but it felt like forever still. The campaign against the Stepstones’ pirates had been quick enough, though not at all lacking in intensity.

“We’ll be docking in half-an-hour, m’lord,” the captain told him and Domeric nodded. The winds had been fair on their journey, with no storms hindering the Flying Stormlander as she sailed upon the waves homeward. The ship arriving faster than expected, Dragonstone was illuminated in the morning sun instead of the last of the day’s rays, its usual mists and dark, craggy hills seeming somewhat softer than they were in truth. Oftentimes, Domeric had wondered whether the ominous, dark atmosphere of the island had turned Stannis into the dour man he was. But, perhaps, he had always been that way.

How strange that he had found a second father in the Baratheon man. Roose Bolton was not that different from the Baratheon lord; both were hard men, even cold men, but Stannis had something his father lacked — while his true father had the quick mind and icy ruthlessness of a schemer, Stannis was brutally honest when it came to the truth. It was something that resonated with Domeric, whose knightly oaths and general character made him into a man much closer in disposition to Stannis than the Bolton lord. His father had always made him somewhat uncomfortable, reminding him of an unmoving snake just waiting to lunge and bite. It was the reason he had come here instead of sailing straight to the North. Stannis was always good for giving him his equilibrium back.

Domeric’s wide smile disappeared quickly when he stepped upon dry land, for the welcoming party that greeted him looked neither welcoming nor in good cheer. The lines of Ser Davos’ face were taut with tension and the guards behind him — all good and able men; indeed the best fighters on the whole of Dragonstone — were numerous and well-armed.

“Greetings, Ser Davos.” Domeric tried to give an honest and friendly smile though that was harder and harder as the men’s unmoving faces remained in the same hard set. Domeric resisted the urge to go for his own sword, knowing that it would both be futile and exacerbate the situation.

“Greetings, Ser Domeric,” Ser Davos nodded. “If you would hand over your weapons, I will escort you to Lord Stannis.”

There was a moment of strained silence before Domeric smiled again, no mirth in his eyes or his smile.

“I sailed from Dragonstone with well wishes and gifts for my journey, and I return to hostility and mistrust. What has happened, Ser Davos? I am no enemy of yours.”

The lines around Ser Davos’ eyes softened in a barely perceptible manner.

“Many things have happened during your absence that have necessitated caution even amongst familiar faces. Lord Stannis will explain everything.”

Domeric knew Ser Davos well enough that he was certain he would not get anything more out of him. Still, for the first time in his life this island did not feel like a second home to him; it felt like enemy territory. Domeric’s mouth tightened and he himself straightened. The men in front of him shifted, perhaps thinking that he would be foolish enough to attack.

Domeric was no fool.

“Then, considering your…welcome, I must insist on bread and salt before handing over my weapons.”

“Very well.” 

Ser Davos sent for bread and salt and for the next minutes they remained in a tense and uncomfortable stand-off. Finally, the bread and salt arrived. Domeric sprinkled some of the salt on the piece of bread, stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed it down as quickly as possible. It was dry, too dry to eat without a drink, and the salt prickled his tongue in an unpleasant manner. Nothing like the feast the dwarf had held after victory over the pirates. There, Domeric had been a guest of honor, eating only the finest of foods in the known world and drinking the best wines. That a Lannister would show him more hospitality than his foster father…

Domeric relaxed slightly when he finished swallowing. Whatever else happened, he was now under guest right — and nobody was foolish enough to bring down the wrath of the Gods upon them by breaking this sacred rite.

“No harm shall befall you here, Ser Domeric.” And with that assurance Domeric disarmed, feeling distinctly naked as he was surrounded by the guards, following them as he was escorted down familiar paths to the ancient fortress. But even as he was now helpless to defend himself, his eyes and mind were quick to notice the changes around the island. He had lived here long enough to know that there were more people here — and most of them looked like they were readying for war. The cold feeling in the pit of his stomach expanded.

Into the Stone Drum they went, ascending stairs upon stairs. Domeric had no doubt that the Chamber of the Painted Table was the goal of their brief journey. They met more and more people the higher they went: squires and pages hurrying to and fro, scribes walking with purpose, and even knights and some nobles that Domeric knew to be beholden to Stannis eyeing Domeric with wary curiosity as he passed.

The Chamber of the Painted Table was flooded with morning light, but the tranquility that Domeric associated with the room where Lord Stannis had diligently followed his duty as Lord of Dragonstone was gone. Had he thought that the earlier activity he’d seen on the way here was far more than usual, then this room could only be described as a bee hive, humming with both tension and energy. But before he could examine it, his eyes met those of Lord Stannis’.

“Clear the room!” the lord ordered and nobody dared to disobey. Only Ser Davos stayed behind, taking a spot next to the exit, watching everything cautiously. Did he think Domeric would try to escape? From the heart of Dragonstone? Even he was not that foolish.

“Greetings, Lord Stannis.” It would not do to forget his courtesies, even now; perhaps, especially now. Domeric bowed slightly, not as low as he usually did, but just as low as he would for an enemy commander.

Stannis eyed him, then snorted. He looked tired and drawn.

“As polite as ever, Domeric.” He paused. “But greetings to you, too. You must be wondering what happened for you to receive such a welcome.”

“It did cross my mind,” Domeric admitted mildly.

“Then I will tell you. The —“ But before Lord Stannis could finish his sentence, there was a knock on the door. Who could possibly disobey the order to let the two speak in peace? “You will see for yourself. Enter!”

The door opened and a dark-haired youth entered. Instantly, Domeric smiled. Tommen! The young Baratheon prince had been as a brother to him since the moment Domeric had rescued the boy. Though this was clearly not the three-and-ten year old boy he had left behind when he had sailed to the Stepstones. Tommen was dressed in the finest of clothes and, though he held himself with the dignity befitting a prince, there seemed to be a weight upon him that seemed to age him in years.

“Tommen!”

The youth glanced at him and nodded gravely.

“Ser Domeric.” Not `Meric` or even `Domeric`. Domeric’s smile vanished. The boy’s voice was hoarse and deep in a way that made Domeric remember the times the youth had tried to sound like a man grown. But there was no pretense now. Tommen had never reminded Domeric of Stannis before. Right now, he did.

And then…then the morning sunlight caught in the jewels that were set in the crown upon Tommen’s head. Seven gemstones of different colors. It reminded Domeric of the crown of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, though that one had always been described as rather simple while Tommen’s crown was elaborate, the gold twisted into spikes that looked like antlers.

What had happened? Were King Robert and Prince Joffrey dead? But this wasn’t Robert’s crown; Domeric was sure of that.

Even as he thought that, he proceeded to bow deeply.

“My…king?”

“King Tommen Baratheon, First of His Name, and rightful heir to his father King Robert,” acknowledged Stannis. “Though maybe not your king.”

“My lord?”

“Come, sit,” Lord Stannis gestured to a small table next to the eastern window. Refreshments were already ready upon it and Domeric gratefully sat. Tommen, too, silently joined them. King he might be. Nevertheless, he seemed to defer to Stannis.

“King Robert and Lord Jon Arryn are dead, assassinated. Joffrey accuses the Starks of the deed and has summoned Ned Stark to King’s Landing to face judgment,” Stannis said, pressing a piece of parchment into his hand. As Domeric read a block of ice seemed to settle inside his belly permanently. It was true. The proof was in his hand and the implications…there was no way that Ned Stark would ever set foot in the Red Keep without his army.

“The Starks are no assassins.” Whatever else they were, they would not have killed the king in so cowardly a fashion. And Jon Arryn…”Lord Arryn was like a father to Lord Stark. He would never kill him.”

“No,” Stannis agreed, “especially as the would-be-assassin is said to be Benjen Stark. Both he and his son Lyan are said to be in the Black Cells while Joffrey sits the Iron Throne.”

Domeric glanced at Tommen.

“If Joffrey is still alive…”

“Why is Tommen king? He is the only legitimate issue of Robert’s. Cersei Lannister cuckolded Robert, sleeping with, at least, one of her knights. Before the news reached us of the Hand’s and Robert’s demise, we received a raven from Jon Arryn. Here, read it.”

_Greetings, Lord Stannis,_

__

__

I write to you of a sensitive issue. I have found proof that Myrcella and Joffrey are not Robert’s children. Only Tommen, with his Baratheon features, is a child of Robert’s and his rightful heir. Cersei cuckolded Robert, sleeping with other men, amongst them one of the knights. I have covertly gathered proof of this, though I fear that my actions have not gone unnoticed. I cannot leave King’s Landing and leave Robert behind in this pit of vipers unprotected. Events are happening too quickly. I cannot make sure that our enemies will not make the proof disappear here in King’s Landing, so I am sending it to a safe place in the Vale. Should something happen, one of my trusted men will come to you and ensure that the proof will reach your hands.

I entrust you with the safety of our future king, King Tommen.

With deepest regards,

_Lord Jon Arryn_

 

“It is written in Lord Arryn’s hand.”

“Indeed. Shortly thereafter, both Lord Arryn and Robert were dead and Joffrey announced his ascension.”

Domeric frowned.

“So he used the well-known enmity between the Starks and King Robert for his own ends. That is what you are saying, is it not? It seems a foolish move. The North will never take this lying down. Lord Stark will call the banners and march upon King’s Landing.”

“Indeed, he will. Considering what happened last time Starks were kept captive in King’s Landing, there is little doubt of that. As for Joffrey…you have seen him yourself over the years. The Red Faith has him tightly in its grips still; and we all know the madness that comes with it. Even had Joffrey not been a bastard, no sane lord would bend his knee to one who worships R’hllor.”

“That does not explain why you welcomed me like this.”

Lord Stannis grew grim again. His blue eyes were piercing, the gaze not exactly hostile but that of a strategist considering his next move. If Lord Stannis did not hear what he wanted to hear, then Domeric had little doubt that he would not leave Dragonstone in the near future.

“It is well-known that the North is dissatisfied with the rule of the Iron Throne. Nobody can deny that this has been the case for years, since the Greyjoy Rebellion assuredly, perhaps even before that. With all that do you think that the North will swear fealty to King Tommen, the son of Robert, when Robert had been the one to demand a hostage in Lyan Stark?”

“Yes,” Domeric made sure to answer swiftly and surely, though on the inside he wasn’t sure at all. Northern independence had been a dream in the back of the minds of most folk, whether smallfolk or nobles, insidiously clawing its way to the surface more and more. “No doubt Lord Stark and all others believe Joffrey to be the rightful king. Let me travel to the North, speak to Lord Stark and convince him of the truth. I can vouch for Tommen’s character.”

But even Domeric’s impassioned plea did not seem to move Lord Stannis. After a while, though, the lord glanced at his king, his brow furrowed and nodded once.

“Very well,” Lord Stannis agreed, but before the relief could spread inside Domeric he continued, “but you will swear yourself to Tommen here and now.”

And then Domeric had no choice. Were he to refuse, he would not be let go. Were he to swear, then he could not go against the oath, even were the North to refuse to bend the knee. There was only one option he could choose, after the words he had said before, and hope for the best. With leaden limbs he raised himself from the chair, then knelt in front of Tommen. The boy’s blue eyes were solemn, but still he saw the same kindness and honor in them that he knew were intrinsically part of the young king’s nature. And that gave Domeric the strength to say the words without them trembling in his throat, without seeming hesitant at all.

“I promise on the Old Gods and the New that I will in the future be faithful to King Tommen Baratheon, First of His Name; that I take him as my king, never cause him harm and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”

Domeric stretched out his clasped hands towards his king and felt Tommen grasp them in his. His youthful voice was strong as he spoke and Domeric thought to hear relief in it.

“Let the Old Gods and the New witness this oath. I take you as my knight, Ser Domeric Bolton. Rise.”

For good or ill.

Domeric rose a man reborn.


	4. Benjen I

Darkness. Darkness made time flow strangely, Benjen thought. He knew not when they had thrown him into the Black Cells, knew not what had happened to his companions; what had happened to Lyan…

Lyan…

To see his son again after so many years and then this…the gods were cruel indeed.

His whole world had narrowed, closed in. He knew that the cell was small. Though he could not see any of the walls, he could feel them when he stretched out his arms. They were cold to the touch, icy like his homeland. The cold didn’t bother Benjen much, in truth. Home was often much colder than this. Oh, how he yearned to be there again! Even lying in fresh snow, waiting for a Wildling ambush was better than this. It smelt better for sure. Benjen was no stranger to the odors of human waste — he had been a warrior long enough — but that didn’t mean that the overpowering stench in this little cell did not perturb him.

Perhaps he hadn’t yet spent too long in here, if the stench still disturbed him some.

The heavy wooden door opened and Benjen instinctively closed his eyes against the bright light of the torch. It was like looking into the sun, blinding and painful. Benjen swallowed the painful whine that wanted to escape his mouth with some difficulty.

“Ah, Lord Benjen,” the voice was strangely sympathetic considering his surroundings, though he could not place it. Carefully, he opened one eye, then the other, adjusting gradually to the illumination. The man looked like a gaoler…but surely there would be no sympathy in a gaoler’s words… ”Did I not tell you that the South was too hot for you wolves? And now look at you — you are melting!”

Strange words. Memorable words. Benjen remembered.

“Lord Varys.” Instead of his usual strong voice, the words came out in a croak. Benjen coughed. He drank greedily when the water touched his lips, the water skin full against his chin. “My thanks.”

“Think nothing of it, Lord Benjen. A man in your position…well, such a man has my sympathies.”

“But not enough sympathies to help me escape.”

“Hmmm…no, my lord. I had given you fair warning; warning you did not heed.” 

“Talking in cryptic words about the weather does not equal a warning that one would be accused of killing his king.”

Varys tittered. From the sound of him one would think the two of them were having an afternoon repast and were not stuck in some dank dungeons with this horrible stench all around them. Benjen’s right hand clenched into a fist, his fingernails digging deep into his palm. He barely felt the pain. It helped still.

“Oh, my lord! It is good to see that you are in good cheer still! That will serve you well — you and your son Lyan.”

Benjen dreaded asking the question. He asked anyway.

“Serve us well — how?”

“Why, serve you well when you confess to killing the king, naturally!” Varys said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Killing the king? Obviously, Benjen would confess to the deed; a deed he didn’t do.

“You’re drunk.”

“Oh, no, my lord. I never drink enough to get drunk. I did not do so now.” Varys sighed, head inclining forward, shoulders slumped. “Indeed, I am most serious. You will confess to the murder, if you want your son to live. A plot from the North. It will be easy to swallow for all involved.”

“Only it will be a lie.”

Varys shrugged.

“Sometimes, lies are necessary for the good of the realm.”

What a strange sentence. There was something there…

“What good would a war between North and South bring the realm?” There was no sense in such a war. It would bring only death and horror upon the lands. If the war still came, then what reason had there been to send Lyan here, into this putrid southern hell?

“And you think, my lord, that if you do not confess, King Joffrey will be lenient? Will believe that you did not kill his father? That not confessing will somehow make the war to come less horrible? Less bloody?”

No. Confession or not — it would not make any difference. But it would make a difference to him.

Lyan…

“Where is Lyan?”

“Captured, obviously.” It was a quick, direct answer. Something about it felt wrong.

“Then why can’t I hear him? Where have they put him? How can I trust that you will keep him safe?” The questions rushed out of him. His heart beat faster, the pressure of panic returning to his chest as the images of the dark rushed back to him. Lyan bloody and dead on the ground…Lyan burning…Lyan’s eyes unseeing… Darkness and the time it had given him were bad mistresses. They whispered horrors into his ears and cast illusions upon his mind when he dreamt.

“He is safe. For now. If you cooperate, my lord.”

Cooperate. Confess. Do this. Do that. All for vague promises.

“Then I want some kind of proof that he is alive.” At least that.

But Varys turned around without answering him.

“Think about it, my lord. But do not think too long.”

And then darkness swallowed him once more. Worries and thoughts raced through his mind, wild horses in his brain that galloped on and on. Was Lyan alive? Was he, too, captured? Benjen had not seen him at all since before he went to meet King Robert. Perhaps…just perhaps…

When the door opened again it was not the disguised form of Varys that stepped through. Jewels that sparkled even in the torchlight, expensive clothes of silk and carmine velvet — how popular Benjen suddenly was! Even the new king deemed himself not too fine to descend into this pit of despair and misery.

“To what,” Benjen coughed, “do I owe the pleasure, Your Grace?”

King Joffrey tilted his head to the side, silently watching him. What he was looking for, Benjen didn’t know and couldn’t guess. After — days? Weeks? After…such a long time in this cell, surely he could only look as filthy as a Wildling and just as civilized…

“To my curiosity, Ser Benjen Stark,” the king finally answered. “I know not whether to thank you or to curse you. Your assassination of my father was done at an…inopportune moment. And it also…robbed me of the satisfaction of doing it myself. Royal blood, royal life to be squandered so easily, without due preparation…well, it is a waste.”

What?

“You…you wanted to kill him yourself?” The instinctive revulsion at the notion was so overpowering that even the denials of Benjen doing the deed were swept from his tongue. A kinslayer in the making…good gods!

“That does surprise you?” The king…Joffrey asked mildly. “You cannot tell me that you considered my father a good king or that you liked him any. He was a womanizer, respecting neither his station nor his family. Worse, he did not rule. It was always something my teachers made sure to remind me of: a bad ruler is better than no ruler at all.”

It was certainly something that Benjen could agree with, damn it. Why the hells did this…this kinslayer-to-be sound so damn reasonable?

“And you consider yourself to be a better ruler?”

“I could hardly be a worse one.” It was hard to argue with that. Benjen had hated Robert Baratheon, though his hatred had nothing to do with the man’s rulership or lack thereof. The North had always been remote, both in mentality and distance, even before Ned’s disagreement with Robert. King’s Landing’s rule and its impact on the North had always been…minuscule when there was no active meddling involved.

Of course, Benjen was predisposed to hating Joffrey too. The man had tried to kill his son. The thought crossed his mind, stirring the rage in his heart again. Inopportune moment. There had been a lot of those…

“One could argue that a potential kinslayer is the worst of the worst,” Benjen hissed from behind his gritted teeth.

“Hmm…one could, as would most of the rabble in Westeros, I suppose. As unenlightened as they are and with the title of kinslayer thus unclaimed, I would have to thank you for the deed then.”

“It was not I. I did not ram a knife into his back.”

Again, the king’s strange eyes observed him. Then, Joffrey smiled.

“You know, Ser Benjen, I even believe you.”

What.

“What?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. Even you wolves are not stupid enough to kill the king in such a public way while still in the Red Keep. There are other, less dangerous ways to do it. I would know. I have been planning his death for years. Besides, one of my trusted men confirmed that the king did not die of the knife wound. It was a fast-acting, almost unknown poison from Essos. Deadly in seconds, almost never with any recognizable symptoms — well, not any that you or anyone here would recognize. You were, as they say, at the wrong time at the wrong place; or, perhaps, at the right time at the right place.”

“Then…what now?” Surely, the king wasn’t telling him all of this just for the sake of it.

“You confess to the murder and I will give you the opportunity to take the Black.”

Benjen swallowed his protests. Useless. All of them. For the first time since arriving in this cursed city, he truly realized what Lyan had meant when he spoke of image. It didn’t matter that Benjen was innocent. It didn’t matter what he and his family had done or not done. Truth, justice…none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was power — and Benjen had none, at the current time. No power but the confession he could give or not.

“I will be an even more benevolent king, Ser Benjen. My sister is,” Joffrey snorted, contempt in every part of his body, “…fond of your son. Currently, the Gold Cloaks have an execution order. I will change it. He will return to the North, alive and well, should you confess.”

Did that mean…? Varys had lied to him. If Joffrey wasn’t lying now…

Wild hope beat in his chest. Benjen licked his lips. Perhaps it was time to give himself some advantages on the battlefield…it was a risk, but…

“You know…you are not the first man to promise me that…”

“What?”

For perhaps the first time Joffrey looked taken aback, not at all in control of the situation.

“Varys wanted me to confess to the murder too, though he too knew me to be innocent.”

There was a tense silence. Then, Joffrey nodded.

“I see.” He paused. “Well, do think about it — but do not think for too long.”

With that he turned and left Benjen to darkness and his thoughts once more. There was no peace to be found there.

What games were Varys and Joffrey playing? Was Lyan captured? Was he free? With no confirmed information, he could only guess. Guess and pray.

There was only one Heart Tree in King’s Landing, somewhere far above him. But his gods were the gods of stream, forest and stone. Their roots reached deep. He could only hope that they heard him.

And so Benjen lowered his head and began to pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who reviewed and waited for new chapters. I appreciate it. RL was pretty busy for a while and it's currently a bit of a bitch, but I'm writing again more often, so I'm hoping that I'll be able to update chapters more often too. Though the Songs of the North is one of my priorities, I'm getting into original fiction and VN, too.


	5. Robb I

Winterfell had changed in the few weeks since that fateful letter had arrived, bringing with it the dark news that had shaken the North. Ravens and messengers came and went day and night as his father called the banners and prepared Winterfell’s troops for the war ahead. The Dawnguard, the backbone of the North’s defense, were eager for blood and vengeance, especially with their commander and his son captured. And now…now the lords of the North had come riding through the gates of Winterfell, their banners a myriad of colors all united for one cause.

Yes, war was in the air.

It was a new fragrance for Robb, who had led some of his father’s troops against the Wildlings before but had never truly seen Winterfell at war. It made him question himself — his abilities, his character, his future. So much was uncertain…

“Robb!” The rider he had come to greet slid from his saddle and grimly took his arm in a warrior’s grip. Jon looked well — strong and not at all uncertain. His brother had more experience in the arts of war, had distinguished himself among the North’s best warriors. For a moment the old jealousy flared back to life before he squashed it again. He was better than this.

“It is good to see you, brother!”

“And good to see you too, though I wish it had been under better circumstances. But rest assured that the men of High Lakes are prepared to do their part. All of us want Uncle Benjen and Lyan to return home unharmed.”

“Aye,” Robb nodded, leading Jon inside, dodging servants and Bluecloaks in the corridors. “None are more eager to see them returned than our family. By the way, have you not yet found yourself a good wife to marry? Wasn’t there a girl…Alysanne, I believe is her name?”

Jon smirked, apparently not at all perturbed at the teasing. How interesting. Robb remembered Jon being stiffer in both sense of humor and topics.

“Hmm…she’s…interesting, but not at all ready to be someone’s wife. Her prospects in the Bluecloaks are too good.”

“A pity for you.”

“Oh, not at all. We have…fun enough even without marriage.”

Robb’s eyebrow rose in disbelief.

“You — with a woman? The Seven Kingdoms must have frozen over! Or perhaps been consumed in fire?”

“You’ve turned into a joker since last we met, I see,” Jon countered. “I don’t have to be the King of Westeros to enjoy life!”

“For you to fuck a woman? I always thought it would take marriage — or that.”

“I’m not fucking anyone. I’m just…enjoying Alysanne’s company.” Jon paused, then smirked again. “What? There are many things a man can do without getting a woman with child. Surely your Wynafryd has taught you this much.”

Robb felt himself redden at the suggestion. Certainly, he had learned much since getting married.

“I will not deny it.”

“And have you gotten her with child yet? With the war starting…”

“Winterfell’s succession is much more secured than yours, Jon. There’s Bran and Rickon. But you’re not even married.”

Jon shrugged.

“I won’t die easily. And if I do? Well, perhaps Father would give High Lakes to Arya. She would enjoy it up there. You have never visited me, Robb, since I have taken up the lordship. Oh, you should see High Lakes! It is a beautiful land. The water is the most vibrant of blues that you have ever seen and the mountains are so high that they seem to reach all the way up into the sky.”

“It sounds peaceful.” Robb smiled, imagining it. “Perhaps…I will visit you there when the war is won, what say you?”

“And I will welcome you with the greatest feast you have ever known, brother!”

They shook on it and laughed.

“It is good to know you’re still capable of laughter, even at a time like this!” a voice from the right commented and they turned as one, their laughter petering out but small smiles remaining still. They straightened immediately when they saw Jaime Lannister, the Lion of the North himself.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt you, boys! The Heir of Winterfell and Lord Highwind laughing together — trust me, in the coming months you will cherish every moment you can laugh.”

Robb didn’t doubt the man’s words. Neither he nor Jon had ever really seen true war like Jaime Lannister had. What it must be like to be in this man’s position…they would be fighting his nephew, his family. By the darkness that hid behind the joviality the Lion was aware of that too.

“It is good to see you, Lord Jaime.” Jon stepped forward and shook the man’s hand.

“And it is good to see you; a worthy knight of the Wintersworn and a lord besides! Life has been good to you.”

“As I pray that it will be good to us all in the times to come.”

“As do we all, brother,” Robb added.

“Then let us make it so. I believe I am the last to arrive to the council?”

“You are, brother, though not late. The meeting is not until this afternoon. Father will want to see you before that.”

“Then I will leave you two to your business and not make Ned wait any longer.” With a jaunty wave Lord Jaime left them.

They continued on through the busy corridors, Lord Jaime’s sudden appearance before somehow managing to dampen their joking.

Father was in his solar, the grim set of his jaw and tension around his eyes doing nothing to set them at ease.

“Jon!” he exclaimed with relief, pulling Robb’s brother into a warm hug. “How good it is to see you well, my boy!”

Jon smiled.

“Hardly a boy, Father.”

“Yes, yes,” their father nodded, frowning, “one-and-twenty, hardly a boy at all — neither of you.” He looked at them and a glimmer of unease settled into Robb’s heart. There was something in that gaze he couldn’t put his finger on. “Men. That is who you are now. Grown men.” He paused and then added forcefully, “Stark men.”

Then, he sighed, crossed the room to the door, looked outside from left to right as if making sure nobody else was there and then closed it firmly.

When he turned to them both, Robb knew that whatever would happen next was not something he wanted to hear. Perhaps it was that realization that prompted him to speak.

“Father, maybe I should…” He took a step towards the door but stopped when his father shook his head in denial.

“No, no. I have to talk to Jon, that is true. He must hear it — but so must you.”

The three of them sat down, Jon stiff at his side, eyes grave.

He must feel it too, Robb knew.

Silence settled over them, none brave enough to break it.

“Father,” it was Jon who finally spoke, the steadfast determination of a warrior clear in his voice, “whatever it is, tell us. We are men grown and will deal with it as a family.”

Robb nodded in agreement and that must have been enough for their father to finally start.

“Robert’s Rebellion — neither of you know how it was and I thank the Gods for it. The last days of Aerys’ reign were horrible. They say the Gods toss a coin when a Targaryen is born and there are only two results possible: either greatness or madness. Aerys…well, Aerys was deep into the latter in the end. You know of how he burned your grandfather, killed your Uncle Brandon. And then…well, Lord Arryn refused to hand me over to him to be killed too and suddenly I was the Lord of Winterfell, burdened by duties I had not been born to nor raised in addition to a civil war that would consume all of Westeros.”

Father paused, taking a sip of wine, and then continued.

“Aerys was mad — but so was Rhaegar. It was more subtle, true, but still there. Lyanna…Lyanna was just a girl — too young, too headstrong. She was like Arya in that way. She saw Robert and his ways, saw him drinking and whoring and knew that he was not good enough for her. Now, now I see that she had been right.”

Robb felt his fingers grow cold around his own goblet, imagining quite well what Arya would do when presented with an unworthy suitor and an uncompromising father. Considering the history they were aware of…

“She went with Rhaegar willingly, didn’t she?” It was Jon who spoke it out loud. He looked even more tense than he did at the beginning.

“Aye, at first,” Father confirmed, then sighed. “By the time she heard about Brandon’s and your grandfather’s deaths it was too late. Rhaegar kept her prisoner in a tower in Dorne. The Tower of Joy.”

“The Gods have an odd sense of humor,” Robb quipped. It did nothing to dissipate the tension.

“They have at that. When I heard where she was, I travelled into Dorne with a trusted group of men at my side — friends all and capable warriors. The last of the Kingsguard awaited us at the Tower. There was no reasoning with them. All died. Only Howland and I remained standing in the end. And then…then I found Lyanna.” He paused and then looked at Robb. “Do you remember what I answered you, when you asked what was more important to me than my personal honor?”

“Family and the North,” Robb whispered.

“Family and the North,” Father repeated, all the while looking at his brother.

Jon was trembling, face as white as snow, fingers clenched so tightly that Robb feared he would break skin. He had understood the implication too, perhaps had known it before Robb did. Robb wanted to reach out to his…brother, wanted to give him comfort but feared that it would break the man who had always seemed unbreakable so far.

“There was no way to save her. No maester at that godsforsaken tower in the middle of nowhere, no…midwife,” Father swallowed the word and Jon spasmed beside him, a low keening sound escaping him. The Bloodwolf wounded by his own blood, injured and frail. Robb couldn’t bear to watch and turned his gaze upon Father. “She pleaded with me, made me swear and I did so gladly. For family.”

“Me,” croaked Jon, acknowledging it.

“Aye, you.”

“And then?” Robb asked, swallowing, his mind fighting against the truth.

“And then I returned to King’s Landing and then the North. Gods, I will never forget how Robert spoke of dragonspawn, how he rejoiced in the murder of Elia and her children. I knew, then, that he could never know, never suspect that there was a true-born son of Rhaegar’s still alive. The friend I had spent most of my childhood with, had laughed with and thought of as a brother, was in his own way as mad as Rhaegar had been, as Aerys had been. Tywin Lannister hated me for encouraging Jaime to be his own man, a good man, for giving him a choice — and it was he who was further whispering advice in Robert’s ear, poisoning his mind. Had that not been so, I might have let things rest, let secrets be buried by time and shadow. But Tywin Lannister is not a man prone to forget slights or grudges — and I had harmed him far too grievously in his eyes. No, someday he might strike and the North had to be ready if it came to that. I refused Benjen’s wish to join the Night’s Watch and started to prepare — quietly, slowly and prayed that it would never be needed. By the time of the Greyjoy Rebellion, though, I was sure that it was too late to salvage anything of the good man Robert had been. When he demanded I hand over Lyan as a hostage, I was almost ready to declare the North’s independence, but we had been hit too hard by both the Ironborn and winter, so I waited and prepared.”

And, suddenly, Robb saw the plan quite clearly. His mind on fire, he marveled at all the pieces on the board, the strategy becoming obvious. Not able to contain it, he spoke.

“You fortified the North — that’s why we have a fleet again and Moat Cailin and the Bluecloaks! And, oh — that’s why Uncle Ben married Aunt Obara, right? We can hit the Lannisters from two sides! And Jon…you raised him as a lord, fit to rule — no! You raised him as a king!”

A pretender to the Iron Throne. Hell, they could probably rally all the hidden Targ royalists behind them if the world could be convinced that Jon was truly Rhaegar’s son!

“No!” They both turned to Jon. He was hugging himself, eyes unseeing, body shaking. “No, no, no, no, no,” he continued to murmur. Then, he abruptly stood up, stumbling towards the door. He looked like a drunk, pushing the door open and disappearing with unsteady steps into the corridor outside.

His father looked pained, face frozen in a frown. His father; not Jon’s. Oh, gods! Not Jon’s! That meant…

“Hell, he’s not my brother!” All that rivalry, all those years of jealousy — and it had all been so…unnecessary! Jon wasn’t his brother; he was his cousin. Part Targaryen. Not his brother…

But his father quickly interrupted this line of thought.

“He is your brother, Robb! He is of your blood and he has been raised as your brother. Nothing has changed from this morning.”

“Apart from you grooming him to be king! Will you announce it at the council?”

“No, not yet. I am waiting on the reports of our spies. They have orders on how to send information in situations such as these. If we can get your uncle and Lyan out of King’s Landing by covert actions, then we should do so. It would certainly be less risky for their lives than a siege. But if Joffrey should find out that Jon has a claim to the throne…”

Robb nodded.

“If he’s as rash as Robert then he might escalate the situation before we are ready.”

“Aye. Right now, it is too soon for that knowledge to become public. If a covert rescue effort has not succeeded by the time we are in the Riverlands, then we will announce Jon’s claim.”

“After everything we heard about Joffrey, Father, a show of force will not be enough,” Robb commented, guessing that his father’s reluctance to tell the world about Jon lay more in the futile hope of forcing his former best friend’s son to see reason. With a pretender on the Northern side, though, a peaceful resolution would be impossible, if it was known. “He’s a mad dog, he and his red god. You know it.”

“Aye, I know.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, Robb stood up.

“I’m going after Jon,” he said and left.

There was no doubt in his mind where he would find his brother. As he left the busy hive of the keep behind, he entered the Godswood, making his way to the Heart Tree. Jon was kneeling in front of it; cowering, truly. 

What a pitiful sight, Robb thought, then banished it with a shake of his head. Would he react any better when faced with such ugly truths?

“Well,” Robb made his voice jovial, “you must have fucked a woman, after all — you are the King of Westeros.”

A sound escaped…his brother — his brother, damn it — though Robb knew not whether it was a snort of amusement or a wail of despair.

“Fat load of good it does me…cousin,” Jon spat, a shudder traveling over his whole body.

“Brother, Jon. I am your brother.” He spoke the words and they rang true. His father had been right. Nothing had changed from knowing this truth. Jon was and would be forever his brother, no matter who had sired him more than two decades in the past.

At these words Jon slowly rose, a hand clutching at the bark of the Heart Tree as if it was the only thing that was holding him upright. Then, he turned his Stark eyes upon Robb and they were filled with agony.

“Are you? Not if Father…Lord Stark has his way. A pretender to the Iron Throne! The only thing I’ve ever wanted was a name I could call my own — and I have gained one through sword and blood; Highwind! `To reach the highest of heights` Greatjon called it on that day the name was first praised in his hall. But I never wanted to reach that height. Me, king? The hells do I know of being king? Of those Southron bastards that swarm that damned city where our kin is imprisoned? I only wanted to live my own life, to govern High Lakes as your bannerman, to protect the North. Not to be…imprisoned by a crown! Now I’ll never marry who I want, I’ll not travel, I’ll not…”

Robb’s fist hit Jon squarely and most satisfyingly in the jaw. The surprise was so great that Jon stumbled backwards over a root and fell to the ground.

“Quit it with your self-pity, brother!” snarled Robb, the rage rising up in him so suddenly that he did not manage to contain it, nor did he want to. “You do not want to be king? Do not want the responsibility? That’s tough! Well, there are times — many times, at that — where I do not want to be the future Lord of Winterfell! I do not want the problems or the responsibility inherent in that duty — but do I whine like a babe? No! I do not run from my responsibilities like you are apparently trying to do!”

Jon flinched and something in his eyes shifted as he seemed to focus inside himself. He swallowed harshly. Then, in a tone Robb had never heard before, for it sounded more like a child than a man, he hesitantly said, “No, no, I will not run. I will listen. I promise.”

Robb nodded and Jon shuddered again. But something had changed in his brother now, for he straightened, suddenly appearing once more a man instead of a crying babe. Jon, his future king. How strange that thought.

“But Robb…Targaryen. You have heard Father, read the stories. There is madness in that blood, in my blood. Horrible madness.”

“In those incestuous cretins, yes. But you are part Stark, raised as a Stark and your thoughts are those of a Stark. There is no madness in you,” he reassured, then smirked, “well, apart from your unwillingness to lay with a woman.”

“A woman,” and Jon’s eyes grew sad again. “You know, Robb, for all my japing I think I would have married Alysanne eventually. She is the daughter of Tyros Blackwood, you know? Come to the North to seek a better future than be stifled in the South. A bastard marrying another bastard. There would have been no shame in that. But now…even a royal bastard is of royal blood still.”

“You are true born, if Father’s word is to be believed.”

“The honorable Ned Stark,” Jon laughed grimly. “Who would have guessed that he would be the one with the greatest secret of all? Not even the stain of being a bastard is left to me.”

“Don’t sound so sad about it! I’ve lived my whole life without being a bastard and it’s not so bad!” Robb grinned though he did not feel it. Still, his attempt at joviality proved successful. The air felt lighter around them now.

“Your whole life — that’s the difference, isn’t it? I guess it matters not. Those who want to believe it will and those who will call themselves our enemies will claim me a bastard, perhaps a Targaryen one if they are kind.”

“And all those men and women who fought beside you will see you for the man of worth you are. Let those who stand against you decry you if they want, but let that not make you refuse the hand offered in help.”

Robb offered him his hand and, after a short hesitation, Jon clasped it, letting Robb pull him up and into a hug.

“Then let both of us do our duty as you say, wherever it may take us.”

“I will stand with you,” Robb vowed, “as all our family shall. My sword shall be yours. And if you are proclaimed king, then I shall be the first to take you as my sovereign.”

It was not something he had ever expected to say to Jon, but it felt right.

In the end, Robb decided that he was not so different from his father after all. Family and the North. It was all that mattered.


End file.
